


The Poet Affair

by mayamaia



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen, Howl - Allen Ginsberg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-17 20:17:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2321951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayamaia/pseuds/mayamaia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts when Napoleon picks up a copy of Howl by Allen Ginsberg.  The poem acts as a backbone for the story, well after it leaves the plot.</p><p>It is intended to be a Gen story that incorporates discussion of homosexuality.  That is to say, the boys think about it and deal with it along with all the other trials of life in the 60's.  After all, good people do not live in isolation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Poet Affair

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The world UNCLE protects and the boys themselves are not of my creation, and Howl is very definitely the work of Allen Ginsberg. But since my encounter with the latter was colored with my understanding of the former, I here present you with their interactions from the fields of my brain.

_I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,_  
 _dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,_  
 _angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,_

\- from Howl by Allen Ginsberg

* * *

Napoleon Solo tapped his fingers on the bar by the espresso machine. He tapped his tongue against his teeth and he tapped his toe nervously on the floor, off the rhythm of the low, slow music produced by the band. He was beginning to wonder if being late to meet his friend would really have been so much worse than being early.

He'd been in the coffee house once before, but it had been considerably less busy due to the lateness of the hour. Besides, he'd been there on business. Little seemed to have changed since the previous owner had disappeared. The wall still held its collection of obscure phrases, and the permanent fog of exotic varieties of smoke added to the opacity of the already dim room. Presumably the new owner preferred not to alter an apparently successful formula.

Such success was, however, a mystery to Napoleon. As a social setting, the room left much to be desired. The chairs were hard, the tables rickety, and the thickness of the atmosphere ensured that, even should a man be able to relax despite the jolt of espresso and attempt to admire the curves of his companion, he could hardly make her out for the shadows and the nicotine laced clouds.

Of course, the companion Napoleon awaited wasn't exceptionally curvy, and probably wouldn't care to examine such assets himself. Even the girl Illya currently accompanied, and the reason they were meeting at this place, had finally given up on trying to capture his eye. Sylvia seemed to have decided to treat the Russian in a fairly filial fashion, which was almost a relief considering how much the two blondes looked the part of sister and brother.

Hearing a clink, Napoleon turned to take his drink from the hands that prepared it. With exaggerated care to avoid spilling, he made his way through the tables to an open seat where he could watch the door. He was in the process of sitting when he noticed something left by the table's previous occupant.

It was a book, quite small and easy to pocket, of what passed for poetry in a place like this. It was cheaply published and well-worn, a process that couldn't have taken long judging by the paper and binding. As he settled himself, Napoleon idly slid a finger into the book at the place where it fell most easily open, and took a sip of his coffee as he glanced at the page.

_I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,_

Napoleon blinked, then softly muttered, "You and me both, friend."

* * *

It had only been days before that he had stormed the villa in Portugal to find Illya nearly mindless in a basement cell. Napoleon had been halfway through briefing Illya on their circumstances while he worked on securing the cell before he realized that Illya was barely able to speak, much less use the information he heard. Napoleon had kept talking out of habit more than anything else, as a way to focus on the task of escape and not the state of his partner.

He had found himself irrationally irritated when said partner turned away from the window he was supposed to crawl through and asked, with a child's pride in completing a task, "Is my name Illya?" Napoleon had barked "Who cares?" as he pushed his friend out the window.

Napoleon had dragged Illya to safety more roughly than necessary, dizzily remembering futile conversations in which Illya's vast stores of knowledge left him struggling to catch up. Long lectures on chemical formulas and computer systems, strange and lofty insights into the solidity of things in a probabilistic universe where there was so much more of space than stars.

* * *

_angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night_

* * *

Napoleon came back to the present staring at the third line of poetry and smiled at how closely it matched his own thoughts. He ran his thumb over the rough paper, considering, then checked his watch. Illya would arrive soon enough, they would leave the girl to her scene and they would be off to dinner. A little light reading while he waited would nicely fill the time until his partner's arrival.

Napoleon carefully sipped his coffee, letting the warm bitterness lie on his tongue for long moments before drinking it down. The words on the page faded from his awareness as he was caught by the poem's imagery, here and there forced to stop and gaze into the distance as they triggered one memory after another. Somehow the strange existence described on the page continued to seem close to his own mad dash of a life, frantic and fearful and full.

It wasn't that they lived in desperate circumstances, he and his partner, but their work eternally touched and was taken by others' desperation. Napoleon had seen too many faces aching for power or glory, love, money or lust to fail to recognize the sentiments described in such harsh harmony.

Still, with the inevitability of writer's intent, he was startled as the text turned blatantly sexual. He swallowed and felt his face heat to his ears, trying not to imagine semen and sea men and saintly motorcyclists too clearly, trying to detach them from the angelic head he had inadvertently imagined into character as the hero of the piece. His eyes drifted down to the end of the page, only half reading as the mental banishment proved impossible:

_who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword,_

And Napoleon frowned. He blinked again, checked the title of the poem and the author. Howl. Ginsberg. No clues there. In some confusion, he glanced again at the beginning of the poem, and at a phrase here or there, and finally reread that last line over, unable to continue, his hand trembling ever so slightly against his coffee cup.

"You have grown exceptionally talented at feigning obliviousness, Napoleon."

At those words, he jumped an inch in his own seat, knocked his cup enough to splash and found himself staring up at dancing blue eyes in a face outlined by a nimbus of backlit hair. He choked out the name, "Illya. Ah, erm..." and tried to drop his gaze into a more comfortable angle, but his partner was barely inches away as usual so, oh no, that wouldn't work. He hastily turned his face back toward his coffee and busied himself with mopping up the spill, trying to collect his thoughts instead of squirming in his seat. "Yes, well, anything to blend in with the setting."

A cheerful childlike voice piped up, "Oh, you'll never blend in here, Mr. Solo. No offence." Sylvia. The girl who had asked Illya to attend her gallery opening that night. A sweet little pop art princess, poor and pretty enough and as artless in her words and actions as the coffee house, the poetry and every bit of this little world of modern art she lived in. She was probably right, and she'd know as the setting suited her perfectly.

"None taken, my dear," he said as he surreptitiously stuffed the little book into his pocket, "how was your opening? No nasties, I hope."

Illya answered for her, "Nobody I recognized, besides her room mate and a young gentleman I was fortunate enough to encounter at Harmonica Lake."

The girl looked up at him quizzically. "Yeah I dug that. What did you do to him? He looked like he thought you were ready to eat him!"

Napoleon chuckled and said, "Perhaps he was between Illya and the hors d'oeuvres," earning himself an icy glare. "In any case, I'm glad your new gallery checks out. And thanks for getting my misanthropic partner out into society for once. No man is an island, as they say."

Illya attempted to scowl, but was clearly in too good a mood for it to take. "Perhaps I am the exception. The proverbial rock."

"Does that mean you have your books and poetry to protect you?" Sylvia asked, smiling, and Illya chuckled back. Napoleon recognized a joke he was not expected to understand, and shook his head against the thought of poetry.

"Well, if you have finished with my partner for the evening, I'm afraid it's time to beg our leave of you. Our reservations are across town."

"Oh gee, go ahead Mr. Solo. And thanks again for checking out the gallery for me, Illya!"

"My pleasure. Have a good evening, Sylvia."

Napoleon shifted his chair and stood, catching his eye on Illya's feet in the process. He looked up at the Russian with eyebrows raised. "I do hope you have a change of shoes hidden somewhere, Illya, ah, I'm fairly certain those sandals will stand out."

* * *

_a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon,_

* * *

Napoleon was so lost in thought that he almost didn't notice that Illya had paused in his eating to look at him. They hadn't been talking, as it was a nearly futile pursuit until the voracious Russian was done with his entree, so either he must have been staring at his partner or he'd grown an eye in the middle of his forehead.

"Sorry, Illya, miles away."

"It looked as if you were focused on something considerably nearer than that. What have I done this time?"

"Nothing, no, ah, just something I was reading earlier." Napoleon paused, and decided a question or two couldn't hurt. "Do you have any friends outside of work? I've always assumed your free days were filled with, ah, reading and the occasional visit to a jazz club, but I realize I've never asked."

Illya shook his head, nonplussed. "I have acquaintances. People behind the counters of sandwich shops, one or two of the regulars at the club you just mentioned. But deeper social attachments require time to develop. You know as well as I how impossible it is to spend time anywhere else with regularity."

Napoleon nodded slowly in agreement. "No, that's true. Sometimes I suspect our schedule is designed that way in order to limit our hostages to fortune."

"It's eminently practical if that is the case."

"Hmm." Napoleon realized this line of conversation would bear little fruit, so he risked something more direct. "Anyone interesting among your acquaintances, then? Artistic types? Poets?"

If Illya had been lost before, he was completely confused now. "None to speak of, none I know of."

"What about Sylvia?"

"She may be artistic to some man's eye. As for whether she's a poet, you've talked with her. She's hardly going to pick her words with care, in person or not."

"Hmm. You may be right, my friend."

Napoleon didn't know any appropriate way to press his inquiry. It was troubling enough to be wondering if Illya's and his own work was subtly being made public, it was another realm of worries entirely to suggest - to accuse, even - that Illya had been letting details slip to someone outside of UNCLE.

But that was all he could think about. He remembered the afternoon they'd spent in a Turkish bathhouse, curing his own dunking in a cold Central Park stream by means of heat and steam. To this day he couldn't remember whose idea it had been, just that it had been a brilliant one, and even more brilliant for the fact that he'd snuck it past Budget under the heading of first aid. The girl Sylvia hadn't been in on that Affair, but it had taken place since they had met her and she'd clearly managed to stay in touch with his partner in all that time.

Still, she was hardly the type of girl he would expect to write in a fashion remotely approaching the physicality of what he'd read. She was too sweet, too happy, to speak of the desperate stretch of reality.

Who then? His partner would hardly have told stories of their work to a casual acquaintance, Illya was far too professional for that. Nor would he have spoken to any random friend. It would require an attachment as strong, of such a depth as he had with Napoleon himself; surely Napoleon would have noticed if Illya maintained any such relationship, whether or not its focus worked at UNCLE.

Then again, if he had read those last few stanzas correctly, if Illya had some sort of relationship that would explain his continued apathy toward women of all backgrounds, if Illya were hiding something that would endanger his career, his friendships and his life...

Napoleon took his wine glass and emptied it at a gulp, eyes avoiding his partner's curious glances. If that were the case, of course, Napoleon would never have noticed a thing.

* * *

_who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall_

* * *

As curious as he was, perfectly natural for a spy, Illya Kuryakin was not given to invading others' privacy outside the line of duty. As long as a person held his respect, a fraction of which even total strangers deserved, he preferred to collect only the information which was openly on display. That was quite enough under most circumstances, as few people realized just how much they revealed about themselves in careless comments, casual gestures. He had surprised Waverly more than a few times with secrets gleaned from the secretarial pool of which they hadn't been aware of sharing.

So Kuryakin wouldn't press his partner over what thoughts were making him so pensive over dinner tonight, but he kept his eyes open.

Solo's eyes weren't on his dish as his fork moved between it and his mouth. While they didn't stay still, they didn't track around the room, seeking out one lovely or another to linger and leave. The focus was far, far away, except for the occasional brush across Kuryakin himself, when a nearly indiscernable knot of worry would momentarily tighten Napoleon's face. Whatever was bothering him, it was somehow related to his partner.

* * *

_who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets,_

* * *

A marble chip flaked off of the garden statue providing him refuge, and Napoleon helplessly reflected that poking into the private life of his partner might well develop any hidden fears of being killed by someone who had once been trustworthy. He hoped against hope that Partridge had done something else to Illya than to his other subjects. That he wasn't watching the man's chosen suicide.

Luck. Napoleon could only credit that when they discovered a simple brainwashing - what a profession they were in - ONLY a simple brainwashing had been performed. But some honesty seemed warranted once they were home and Illya had popped an uncounted number of aspirin against what had been described the headache of the decade.

"Hey Illya." That had seemed the way to start, but then the blonde head thrown back against the sofa cushions, throat bared to violence, left Solo wondering if there was any way to broach the subject more gently.

"Yes, Napoleon, what is it?" The lolled head issued something close to amusement. "I am sorry, but if you want stimulating conversation I think my capacities are dimmed."

"Your vocabulary, ah, denies that," Solo muttered, "But if you don't want to discuss the relative merits of modern poetry, I suppose we could gossip about fashion instead."

An eyebrow raised as Illya's head lifted and turned, the entire gesture dripping curiosity. "A new interest? Or have you only picked up a magazine somewhere with a trite stanza or two?"

Napoleon shook his head. "Somewhere between. Found a book by some Ginsberg fellow."

Illya's face lit, eyes radiant blue with interest. "What a shame I missed you reading that! He has something ... I think a little like what you have, there is a high ideal place for both of you, I wonder if either of you reach it." He leaned forward. "Did you like it?"

"Ah, I, well..." Well at least Illya knew of the book, that should count for something. But in what direction? He also obviously found the subject, or its author, interesting.

Illya leaned back, looking smug. "You are still TRYING to like it."

Napoleon shook his head, "I don't know if it's there to be liked."

"Perhaps it is there to enlighten. Have you read any Blake?"

The conversation drifted into the strange corners of the night, twisting over the history of Western literature. Only at the end of the evening, door closed on Illya's plans to shower and sleep, did Napoleon realize he hadn't confessed his mad doubts.

* * *

_who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz,_

* * *

Illya was screaming, bouncing in his seat despite the sharp pain of his sliced palm under his bonds. No, Napoleon, don't Napoleon, don't open the door. Too late, yet he could see Solo regretting nothing as Karmak sprung the trap.

Regretting nothing again, standing arm in sling before Waverly, who radiated disappointment as he expressed his "most sincere relief that your selective memory for my orders has not failed you yet."

Illya had to ask, with the first semblance of privacy, what Napoleon had been thinking during any part of the night. "Especially when you opened the door though I was warning you not to. I know you understood me, and you could have killed us both."

Napoleon smiled sadly and fiddled with his gauze. "It was a long night and I was getting frantic. Besides, you looked like some Little Boy Blue."

Illya pursed his lips and looked away, "And if I tell you not to be so protective of me you will still be protective of me." Napoleon snorted, and Illya continued, "I should probably thank you again."

"Don't mention it. Besides, there will always be things I can't protect you from," Solo said, shaking his head.

* * *

_ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you’re really in the total animal soup of time—_

* * *

Caught, meant to be caught, and Napoleon stared warily at the hard face of his partner as a cane lifted his face by the chin, and fear rose as he saw the interplay between Illya and his horrible, old, Nazi quarry.

Oh what does he want from you, what will he ask of you, better keep Gurnius's interest on me and on me and not on you...

* * *

_the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death,_

* * *

pain white-hot and electric, pain filling Napoleon's world, blinding him to the demon act of an unfallen angel, a swallow fizzing out into darkness

* * *

_and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America’s naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio_

* * *

...and just briefly Napoleon was dying, dying not dead and Illya couldn't be there to reverse it, and Illya knew he had to rely on faith: in the girl and in his own care to not - quite - go too far.

Then. Napoleon insisted on asking afterward if HE was alright, if anything had happened that Illya needed to talk about.

"Nothing, Napoleon, why?" Knee trying to jiggle, trying not to tell Napoleon I only killed you, no great disturbance.

But Napoleon had his own occupied thoughts, not focused on himself at all. A swift intake of breath and it all came pouring out, in dark hilarity.

* * *

_with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years._

* * *

"My virtue is intact, Napoleon. We ARE professionals."

"Yeah I know, just... Remember when I picked up the Ginsberg, Illya?"

"Surely that wasn't your first exposure to the prospect... that blush is a very charming color on you."

Solo gestured denial. "I had this crazy thought for a bit that he was writing about you. Then I saw the date inside the cover."

Kuryakin laughed and grinned, "Weren't you in the country for the obscenity trial? *I* was in the country for it."

Napoleon shook his head. "I was being traded around all through the 50's. But thinking about that got me wondering." He looked up at Illya with heartfelt sincerity. "I was scared for you, partner. I couldn't have minded, but there are some places I'd never be able to watch your back."

Illya nodded, and the words drifted unspoken - the gulag would have been one of them.

* * *

 

* * *

_What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination?_

* * *

And who were they fighting anyway? Illya wondered. There were two unending battles filling their lives. One against tangible evils and the other against - what, cynicism?

* * *

_Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable dollars! Children screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks!_

* * *

Against whatever it was that made cruelty a casual thing, easily disseminated, with no malice at heart.

* * *

_Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men!_

* * *

"I knew a guy once," Napoleon began, breaking a mesmerizing silence that might have lasted a year if Illya hadn't known they needed food and sleep, then paused.

Illya shook himself for a moment, turning his attention back on his partner, whose eyes studied the infinite distance beyond the apartment walls.

Napoleon cleared his throat and continued without hurry, "His wife tried to tell me he was in trouble, but wouldn't say why. She was trying to decide whether to divorce him. Asked if he loved her, if he could, but wouldn't say why she had any doubt..."

Illya squinted in irritation. "And could he? Why do you suppose he married her if that was an unknown in their relationship?"

His partner shook his head, lips pursed. "I told her then - and still I'm sure, absolutely sure he did. He wasn't just going through the motions, I knew the guy."

"I'm sorry," Illya replied.

Moments passed.

"Anyway," Napoleon said. "Fired when it got out, but no divorce. I don't know what happened to them, but she stuck to him for a little while, anyway."

This time, Illya kept the question in his mind to himself. Could she have loved him under the circumstances; what would the doubt have done to her, staying or leaving?

* * *

_Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!_

* * *

Napoleon seemed drained, needed rest, and Illya knew the reasons should have been obvious ones. He picked himself up out of the chair, gave a few unwanted medical admonishments and took his leave of a grumbling partner.

The door closed hollowly behind him, and Illya tried to name the weight on his shoulders: guilt for what he'd needed to do in San Rico, concern for his partner's recovery, discomfort about the topic of their conversation.

No, he thought, I missed something back there. We were talking and Napoleon was troubled and I missed something.

The night air bit, and Kuryakin turned his collar up against it, an easy and instinctive pragmatism. Stars of streetlamps picked out under a matte sky.

...'places where I'd never be able to watch your back.' Illya shook his head. Napoleon should have had children, his sentiments could be so motherly. A hair toss of a laugh and a murmured, "Catch him barefoot anywhere, much less a kitchen."

...'scared for you, partner.' Also, 'I knew a guy.' He'd interrupted Napoleon there. Maybe the memory had been darker than Illya assumed. Nothing had been said of 'the guy's lover. Or one-night stand or whatever.

A blink, and a sort of mental shadow crossed. "I couldn't have minded," Illya mouthed the words.

I missed something back there, he thought, and tried not to think he had guessed just what.

* * *

_Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the Mind!_

* * *

Solo was chattering as he checked all of his preparations for travel. "The worst of it, though, do you know the worst of it, Illya?"

A glance over at his partner registered a troubled expression Napoleon decided to put down to an unspoken complaint at being left behind. As if Solo had made the plans himself this time.

He forged on. "Some of not only the brightest but the best get lured into THRUSH for one lie or another, but sometimes they just have no other hope. How many really intelligent, competent and personable women have we seen heading one scheme or another," he zipped one pocket of the bag with a flourish as if in emphasis, "because in any OTHER business they have been kicked down, exploited or ignored? It's awful."

Illya spoke up. "Moral shortcuts always backfire eventually. As easy as it is to blame THRUSH alone, the ladies in question are letting their efforts hurt others in the process. They are hardly idealists, hardly 'the best' as you put it."

Napoleon shook his head. "Very little separates the idealist from the terrorist. Sometimes nothing. How do I look?" He stood as if for a military inspection.

Kuryakin scowled. "Like a bored businessman."

"Then I could pass as a THRUSH just fine." He grinned as if he'd scored a point.

"You could always sharpen your teeth for the real Corporate Vampire look," Illya muttered as Napoleon strutted out the door.

* * *

_Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light streaming out of the sky!_

* * *

No other hope there is ALWAYS another hope, Illya thought in his own private storm as he swam in the gym. I didn't end up on the other side after Kiev and everything that followed. *He* never did after his wife died, and never would, and I'm sure Angelique has made overtures of every kind.

Below the surface his ears filled with the rushing sounds of the water, and above it echoed shouting horseplay between the other agents. Illya's head passed under again, but when it next emerged the gym was almost silent.

He stopped to tread water, looking around. Urgent voices surrounded a pile of body beneath a red stain on the corner of a bench. Accident. A bad one.

Medics flocked and carried the man, through the bars of sunlight from the gymnasium's high windows and away. Illya tried not to wonder, as he dried off in the echoing chamber of worried whispers, which of the forms would show up in Napoleon's inbox in a few days, on which Illya would need to sign away an agent's service, for weeks, for months, or forever.

* * *

_They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pavements, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is everywhere about us!_

* * *

Forms, piled high and covered with jagged black ending a promising career which might have ended itself anyway, and suddenly Illya fled them for the cafeteria, half tempted to raid Waverly's stock of gin instead. But the man himself appeared as if summoned, catching the elevator as he left Medical.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Kuryakin." The wrinkled face was gently pulling him apart as it always did, like a watchmaker making an effort to see that he was ticking smoothly. The gentle, authoritative rumble continued, "I can call it good, at any rate. Mr. Crocker is doing much better."

Illya nodded and mumbled a "That is good to hear," wondering again how Mr. Waverly managed to do everything he did, and so... personally. He's still human, too, Illya mused, and at his age he must have been in the first Great War.

The elevator stopped, and as Illya moved to exit, Waverly spoke again. "Oh Mr. Kuryakin. Mr. Solo has reported mission accomplished. He will be on his way home in a matter of hours."

This time Illya's thanks were heartfelt and accompanied by a smile. The elevator doors closed, and behind them, Mr. Waverly smiled, just a little, himself.

* * *

_Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!_

* * *

"And after our conversation you actually needed to pose as a THRUSH?" Illya shook his blonde mop in incredulity.

Napoleon teased, "Yeah, ah, don't jinx me like that again soon, ok?"

They were sitting on a veranda, the wall of a small restaurant at their backs. Illya sat, Napoleon thought, as if determined to enjoy the moment of peace, a genuine note of weariness to his slouch, and a hint of hardness lurking around a face of relief.

"I don't ever want your job, Napoleon," Illya grumbled. "So you can be sure I will not gladly leave you endangered. Besides, you are the one who made the joke."

"Oh," Napoleon considered, "I suppose I was. So..."

"Do you suppose Mr. Waverly secretly has a twin?" Illya broke in, neatly preventing Napoleon from asking what the trouble was. He'd find out soon enough, and it wouldn't ruin their afternoon.

Napoleon took the hint. "Even identical twins have subtle differences. Moles, for instance, or wrinkles in slightly different places."

"Makeup, and perhaps surgery." The theory spun out in increasingly far-fetched and silly directions. In the middle of a laugh at a proposed hidden changing room, Illya recalled the words, 'I couldn't have minded.' And he smiled broader, knowing what Solo had actually meant. This, this shared moment.

* * *

_Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street!_

* * *

This moment. It was worth uncertainty, and surely it would be worth suffering a certainty as well. It was the unshared moments which held a cloud of troubles and fears, but nothing about Napoleon was or would be a threat to him. As deep as affection, a faith ran swiftly under their friendship, washing all obstacles away.

He still could be, Illya thought with a laugh, as Napoleon played up an impression of Waverly peering out of a doorway. Hell, for all he knows I could be. And it wouldn't matter. It couldn't degrade this. It couldn't even lift it up. _Ekstasis_ was already here.

* * *

 

* * *

_Carl Solomon! I’m with you in Rockland_  
 _where you’re madder than I am_

* * *

Illya was held and Napoleon was running, and blasts erupted from the rocks.

Illya couldn't decide if he couldn't bear to watch, or couldn't bear to look away.

* * *

_I’m with you in Rockland_  
 _where you must feel very strange_

* * *

Napoleon was running for his life, cursing in his thoughts. Perversely, he wasn't particularly afraid.

He was angry that Illya was being forced to watch.

* * *

_I’m with you in Rockland_  
   _where your condition has become serious and is reported on the radio_

* * *

Picking up the receiver. Making the call, agent down. Returning with the gun to New York, and all so very easy.

Illya wasn't going to think about it. He would do his part and none of this would be part of him. It might have to be true, but it was going to be true to somebody else.

* * *

_I’m with you in Rockland_  
 _where the faculties of the skull no longer admit the worms of the senses_

* * *

He could hear a secretary asking, "What do you mean he's going to lead the team examining the gun? After Mr S..."

* * *

_I’m with you in Rockland_  
 _where you scream in a straightjacket that you’re losing the game of the actual pingpong of the abyss_

* * *

And Napoleon was trying, trying to get through, "It's a bomb, do you hear me a bomb!"

* * *

_I’m with you in Rockland_  
 _where fifty more shocks will never return your soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a cross in the void_

* * *

And in an instant of a breathless run across headquarters, time gave way from a moment when surely Napoleon must have been dead to one in which an explosion must surely have taken Illya and everything they fought for.

Cruel, or such it must be, if either had had time to convince themselves.

* * *

_I’m with you in Rockland_  
 _where we wake up electrified out of the coma by our own souls’ airplanes roaring over the roof they’ve come to drop angelic bombs the hospital illuminates itself    imaginary walls collapse    O skinny legions run outside    O starry-spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is here    O victory forget your underwear we’re free_

* * *

"...It's getting worse, I think," Napoleon declared to an empty room.

The hallway answered, "We are still winning. We are still here." Illya shouldered open the door, arms full of food and beer. He elbowed Napoleon until he caught the hint and caught the bag about to drop through Illya's arms. They arranged the containers on the coffee table and poked through them to fill their dishes.

Napoleon grumbled, "UNCLE's operating budget is getting tighter and tighter, and the member countries are getting more interested in their own conflicts. This time next year, what will have happened to those wars we just..."

"Napoleon." Illya glared at him over a forkful of food he dramatically replaced on his plate.

Napoleon scowled back. "I made the right decision back in the Himalayas, I know that and I knew it even before we knew THRUSH was involved, now I'm entitled to think through the ramifications." He slammed down his plate. "Just now we saw that THRUSH is as interested in peace as we are, as long as..."

"As long as they are on top, the same as all the powers of your half of the world and of mine. It is as valuable to every general on Earth as it was to Harmon before he got a taste of his wish and was pacified forever."

Napoleon stared into a blue-lit challenge and swallowed. "Are we different? We must be, but I don't know how, what to say our goal IS, so it is different from Kingsley's, and different from America's and Russia's and all."

Illya blinked at him for a moment, then turned his attention on his plate. He took a forkful of noodles and consumed it before using the fork to accentuate his words. "We cannot define our victory condition because we do not have one. There is no final, perfect world, but thousands of daily ones where we stand between them and everyone else's final solution."

Solo looked stricken. Kuryakin devoured his lunch.

After a while, in a much quieter tone than usual, Napoleon spoke up. "I always thought I was here to change the world."

Illya snorted. "You are. All the time." He slurped noisily, rudely, at his beer until a hint of annoyance touched Napoleon's eyes, and smiled. "Life is change, and change is good. You are keeping change in the system." He leaned back on the couch cushions. "And so am I."

Napoleon studied him for a few moments, then finally began to eat.

The afternoon sun crept through the curtains and scattered off bright objects in its path. The dapples shifted as the curtains billowed in the breeze, waves of white revealing and hiding points of sharp light.

"I suppose we can always encourage them by example," Illya murmured in concession. "There's untold value in making the journey to meet in the middle."

* * *

_I’m with you in Rockland_  
 _in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night_

* * *


End file.
